The Shock of the Fall. Nathan Filer
depths. No. It didn’t happen quickly or easily. But it did happen. On that day. In that park.
‘It isn’t that I don’t like you teaching me—’
‘I know. It’s okay. I know.’
‘We could still do lessons in the evenings.’
‘I’ll help with your homework.’
‘And you’ll still help me type up my stories?’
‘If you’ll let me. I’d like that a lot.’
A good thing about talking to someone who is standing behind you is that you can pretend you don’t know they’re crying, and not trouble yourself too much with working out why. You can simply concentrate on helping them feel better.
‘You can push me if you want, Mum.’
‘Oh I can push you now, can I?’
‘If you want.’
She did, she pushed me on the swing, higher and higher, and when at last the grey clouds parted for the sun to shine through, it was like it was shining just for us.
‘Uh, what? Hey mon ami.’
‘Can you help me do my tie up, Dad?’
‘What time is it?’
Mum turned over in bed, and pulled off her eye mask. ‘Matthew, it’s the middle of the night.’
‘I don’t know how to do it up. Can I turn the light on?’
I pressed the switch and they both groaned, then Dad said, through a yawn, ‘Usually you put a shirt on first, mate.’
‘I just want to practise.’
‘We can practise in the morning, before I go to work.’ He rolled over, pulling the quilt above his head. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
I switched their light off and went back to my room, grappling with the knot – too nervous to sleep. It wasn’t so long before Mum came through to sit with me though. I knew she would. I knew she would come and sit with me if I woke them.
‘You need to get some sleep, darling.’
‘What if no one likes me?’
I didn’t know who was most worried about me going back to school – me or her. She had her little yellow pills though, which took the edge off.
‘Of course they will.’ She stroked the hair behind my ear, like she used to when I was little, ‘Of course they will.’
‘But what if they don’t?’
She told me the story about her first day at secondary school, of how she had broken her arm in the summer holiday so was wearing a plaster cast. She said there were so many new faces, but the new faces were feeling exactly the same as she was. By lunchtime her plaster cast was scrawled with well-wishing messages from her brand new group of friends.
‘What happened next?’
‘It’s cold, let me in.’
I pulled back my covers and budged over so she could climb in beside me.
‘This is the good part,’ she said, propping up a pillow. ‘One of the playground monitors saw my plaster cast with the writing, and wanted me punished for breaking school uniform rules! So my very first day I was marched to the headmistress, who thanked the monitor for her concerns, looked at my cast, picked up a pen, and wrote Welcome to Pen Park High.’
It was a good story, I suppose.
If it was true.
FUCK IT
I haven’t been feeling too good these last couple of days.
This is far more difficult than I thought. Thinking about the past is like digging up graves.
Once-upon-a-time we buried the memories we didn’t want. We found a little patch of grass at Ocean Cove Holiday Park, beside the recycling bins, or further up the path near to the shower blocks, and we kept hold of the memories we wanted, and we buried the rest.
But coming to this place every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, spending half my life with NUTTERS like Patricia, and the Asian guy in the relaxation room, slyly pocketing pieces from the jigsaw puzzles and rocking backwards and forwards like he’s a pendulum, and the skinny BITCH who skips along the corridor singing God Will Save Us, God Will Save Us, when all I want to do is concentrate, but can’t because the stuff they inject makes me twitch and contort, and fills my mouth with so much saliva I’m actually drooling onto the fucking keyboard – I’m just saying this is harder than I thought.
‘The thing is Mum, it wasn’t the same for you, was it?’
‘In some ways—’
‘No. It wasn’t. It wasn’t the same because Nanny Noo didn’t stop you going to school in the first place, or make you sit by yourself for a whole year making pretend mistakes in your exercise books and wondering when—’
‘Matthew, no. I didn’t—’
‘Wondering when I would have to go to the doctor’s, if you’d drag me there past the whole school, staring and pointing—’
‘Matthew, please—’
‘Staring and pointing at me—’
‘It wasn’t like—’
‘It was! It was just like that. And you made it like that. So now I have to see them all again. I don’t care about the new people. I don’t care about the people who don’t know me. I don’t care about not having anyone to write on a stupid plaster cast. I don’t—’
‘Matthew, please listen to me.’
She tried to put her arms around me but I pulled away. ‘No. I don’t have to listen. I don’t have to listen any more. I’m never going to listen to you. I don’t care what you think.’
‘You need to get some sleep, Matt.’
She wobbled a bit as she got to her feet, and for a second looked down at me as though balanced on a cliff edge.
I had one more thing to say, but I didn’t want to shout it. I forced each word into a tightly bound whisper.
‘I hate you.’
Mum closed my door softly behind her.
I didn’t describe the special handshake I do with Dad.
When we became amis we decided on a handshake. I think I’ve mentioned it already, but I didn’t say how it goes. It’s a special handshake, not a secret handshake. So I can tell you.
What we do is reach out with our left hands and link our fingers, then we touch the tips of our thumbs together. We must have done this thousands of times.
I haven’t counted.
Each special handshake takes a brief second, but if each one was placed end to end they would stretch for hours.
If somebody took a photograph every time, at the precise moment our thumbs touch, and viewed the photographs in a flip book, it would make a time-lapse film – like you get on wildlife programmes to see plants grow, or weeds creeping across a forest floor.
The film begins with a five-year-old boy, on holiday with his family in France. He’s been trying to delay bedtime by talking to his dad about the hermit crab they caught in the rock pool. The handshake was